


icarus, point to the sun

by electroaeons



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, it's just a lot of talking and subtle yearning, sebastian/oc if you squint really hard, what if i asked you...to raise my childe...haha just kidding...unless..?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electroaeons/pseuds/electroaeons
Summary: He burns brightly, brilliantly, and he cannot bear gaze upon him for too long.
Kudos: 14





	icarus, point to the sun

“Sir, I do apologize but there is a gentleman outside – he claims to know you -”

Sebastian sighs under his breath. Claims to know him – he sincerely hopes it’s not one of the Brujah Harpies that have been hounding him as of late.

He waves a hand shortly, not bothering to look up from the newspaper he’s been pouring over.

“Send him in if you must.”

Jean Paul excuses himself and retreats into the hallway; if he focuses, he could probably hear him informing the visitor to come inside, but he truly doubts it is a person of importance. Anyone with a little sense of rationality and some status knows better than to visit other Kindred without arranging for a meeting first.

The door to his office squeaks, then closes, and the lightest click of heels against hardwood echoes until it comes to a stop in the middle of the room.

If this affair takes longer than ten minutes…

“Not even a hello, Sebastian?”

He startles at the familiarity of the voice. The newspaper is finally forgotten and he looks over to find himself standing up and staring, speechless.

“ _Philippe_ ,” Sebastian manages to hiss out once he trusts his own voice again.

Philippe Durand stands in the middle of his office, bathed by the warm glow of the chandelier above him; golden hair perfectly coiffed, shining like a halo; the crisp cut of his cream-colored suit; as ethereal as the last time he had seen him over at the Conclave in Oxford.

It almost feels surreal to see the man before him.

“What are you doing in New York?”

“This is no way to greet an old friend, mon chou,” the taller man smiles thinly and Sebastian bristles at the amusement that coats his voice.

They haven’t seen each other in a century and yet here he stands, silver-tongued and blithe. For a second, he wonders if he’s fallen asleep in his chair and this is a dream.

“Friends send word of their visit.” He takes a moment to gather himself, straightening his posture and taking the man in proper. “You were working for Piniard in Toulouse and yet here you are. Why?”

“Here I am,” Philippe repeats idly. He tilts his head, eyes sweeping the room with passing interest; they pause on one of the paintings Sebastian had brought over with him from France, blond lashes flickering as he considers it for a long minute. Then he looks to him again, the light-hearted smile returning to his lips.

“I was…well. I am still working for her, in a way. You have heard of the forces Europe sent to stake their claim in the North.”

“I have. Ah. Then you…”

“I am, for all intents and purposes, Toreador Primogen of Quebec City.”

He gives a showy little bow, though his eyes remain unenthusiastic about the whole matter. No, not unenthusiastic – _jaded_. He’s seen this look before, a long time ago. Whatever concern lies in him is immediately overwrought with a wave of jealousy that stirs within him – Philippe Durand, always one step ahead of him: in the Academy, in becoming a Kindred, in gaining a position of power. He burns brightly, brilliantly, and he cannot bear gaze upon him for too long.

“Not that my title carries any heft. I’m afraid that the Camarilla was too late in Canada.”

His bitterness is swiftly pushed aside at the sullenness in Philippe’s voice. He has heard the rumors of the Sabbat and how deep their claws are buried into the northern soil; of the futility of any endeavors to try and retake the land for their cause.

He frowns, a little unsettled.

“That still does not explain you standing in my study, in New York.”

“Oh, but in a way it does. I’ve brought my brand new Childe with me, and I mean for her to stay here, for the time being.”

His brows furrow further. All this unnecessary frivolity for a Childe –

And then his brows rise in alarm.

“Did you Embrace her without your Prince’s approval? _Philippe_ -”

“What? No, no, who do you take me for, cher, an Anarch?”

Philippe sniffs, as though affronted at the possibility of being compared to the Movement.

“No, I have had my permission to sire her granted for some time now. I had been merely waiting for a more opportune moment. Alas, as life would have it…”

“Philippe,” he warns. He has always been fond of drawing his stories out but it has only become worse after his becoming a Toreador. “If this is not a matter of transgression, why leave the country? Why bring her along?”

The man sighs softly.

“She and her friends were attacked by a Sabbat mob. They meant to…” His nostrils flare. “You know they favor Mass Embraces. I managed to rescue her but she was almost gone – so I did the only thing I could.”

“You Embraced her,” he confirms and Philippe nods. “Perhaps not what you had in mind but the outcome is what you had wanted, no?”

“Perhaps.”

Philippe finally moves over to sit himself on the armchair in front of the desk. He inclines his head against its back, fingers dragging along the leather armrest.

“It was traumatic for her. The Sabbat will be out for my head, even more so now that I ruined one of their little boorish revelries. I figured some time away from Quebec will do her good. Allow her to get her bearings without the added pressure of an imminent Final Death looming over her pretty neck.”

A bleeding heart, through and through.

He cannot imagine himself going through all this trouble for either of his Childer - not miss Harriet, and definitely not Marius. If their lives had been in danger, the most he would have done would have been to relocate them to a nearby city, not a whole other country -

And then, the realization of the true intention behind this visit strikes him and leaves him fuming.

“You mean to have me shoulder the weight of her upbringing,” he accuses, ruffled once again. What a fool he is, to think Philippe actually sought him out for something other than a petty indulgence –

“Mon chou, please, it is not a permanent situation. I ask of two months, perhaps three. Definitely less than a year.” His voice pours out of his mouth like honey, warm and sweet. Rich brown eyes are half-lid as he holds his gaze, lips tugged into a private little smile. “You are the only one I would trust with this. Besides…a Primogen himself will owe you a favor.”

Philippe is not foolish nor audacious to attempt and sway any decision of his with his Clan’s innate penchant for persuasion; for all the years they have known each other, as Kine as well as Kindred, he has been respectful on that front. No – any grievances arise from the fact he is compelling without putting any effort into it.

Sebastian scoffs, tearing his eyes away to glare outside the windows.

Take in Philippe’s Childe, to curry favor with the Camarilla forces of Quebec. The odds are heavily stacked against him in this. Rearing a stranger to their society’s expectations is bad enough, but she also happens to be Toreador – what is he supposed to do with an artiste? Put her through the Agoge? Ridiculous.

And the favor – well.

Philippe said it himself. The Camarilla have no hold in Canada, and quite probably never will either – which makes the mere idea of expecting any debts repaid from them tragicomic.

Even the European connections his former brother-in-arms has are of no use to him. The power Madame Piniard holds in Toulouse is niche and could never have a real sway in any Court, let alone the New World.

_Sebastian_ is the one that was sent over to New York by his Clan’s Elders, if anything. New York – not some frozen, backwater hamlet that speaks butchered French and is overrun by vermin.

He turns to Philippe once again, unsurprised to find him staring patiently. Neither owes the other anything – the books between them are meticulously clean, and have been since their days spent crawling through muddy trenches and coughing up blood for Bonaparte.

He did say he is the only one he trusts.

“If – _if_ I were to temporarily take her in,” he begins and Philippe actually sits up in his seat. “Her education will be solely my business until you return for her in person. I shall be her sire until then in all but blood. Are we in agreement?”

The smile grows big, impossibly genuine, as the corners of his eyes crease. Human. He still looks so impossibly human.

“It would hearten me, mon chou. Yes, we are in agreement.”

“Hm. What is her name, then?”

\--

“Come, ma chérie, let me introduce you - Sebastian, meet Andromeda Wyatt. Chérie, this is my brother-in-arms, Sebastian LaCroix.”

A well-rehearsed curtsy. Eyes that do not quite meet his.

“Very pleased to meet you.”

Sebastian subtly cocks his head to the side, taking the child’s appearance in.

She stands roughly as tall as him, with modest curves poured into an elegant, tailored navy-blue dress that has been obviously picked by her sire. Her auburn hair has been caught in a loose twisted knot that rests low on her pale neck, a few meticulously errant strands perfectly framing her oval face: sparkling amber eyes, a pert nose and lips in a natural pout, complete with a scattering of freckles across high cheekbones.

Her features are youthful, but with some heavier make-up she could very well pass for a woman in her late twenties – and those eyes…

A man could swim in those eyes and drown, Sebastian thinks appraisingly, though not him. She is of good stock, at least – it shows in the way she curtsied, the way she stands and draws her shoulders back, how she keeps her hands demurely held in front of her. Someone raised her with etiquette and class in mind.

He glances over to Philippe - he looks so impossibly proud of her. He can’t say he recalls ever looking at his own Childer with such gratification.

His early assessment of her finally comes to an end and he offers a brisk bow of his torso, then extends his left hand towards her. Miss Wyatt blinks, a little surprised, though instead of looking to her sire for guidance moves to respond to what she assumes is a handshake. He doesn’t allow his amusement to peek through.

Deftly, subtly twisting his wrist so as to not embarrass her for not recognizing his intention, he gently catches the tips of her fingers in his and shifts her hand, bringing it up to faintly brush his lips against her knuckles. There is a light, crisp fragrance to her wrist, the sweet single note of citrus, which only solidifies how young she really is.

“The pleasure is all mine, miss Wyatt.”

\--

It is three nights later, with Miss Wyatt properly settled in and promised a swift reunion, that Sebastian accompanies Philippe to the station for his unavoidable return to Quebec.

There are only a few handfuls of travelers present in the Grand Central Terminal at four o'clock in the morning, and Platform no.5 where the _Adirondack & Montreal Express_ is currently docked at is even less crowded; there are some eighteen, maybe twenty other passengers heading for Montreal.

"I still find it too risky, travelling during daytime," Sebastian murmurs apprehensively as he scans the Kine scattered about and his companion tuts.

"I always take my precautions, cher. Besides, making a ghoul of a train conductor...well, it could always be worse."

As if on cue, the monstrosity of steel and coal sluggishly comes to life before their eyes; a sharp whistle bellows, followed by thick white plumes of steam rising from the front cab as a stout, elderly conductor emerges from the middle of the train to announce they may begin the boarding process.

Philippe lets out an undignified snort under his breath.

It feels peculiar, seeing him off. His own parents had not bothered with his departure for the Academy at Saint-Cyr-l'École – and that had been the last time he had seen either of them. How morbid, he muses, to compare the two situations.

While the crowd begins to climb aboard in an orderly fashion, Sebastian turns to find the taller man now facing him proper.

Lean fingers reach to cup at his jaw, suddenly, and Philippe smiles down at him so disarmingly that he does not make any attempts at pulling away. He smells like bergamot and cedar and vetiver; he smells like those brief summer vacations they'd spent at Étang de Saint-Quentin, away from the Academy.

“I truly am thankful for this, Sebastian. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Something twinkles in the pools of chocolate that are his eyes. “Perhaps one day, we shall work side by side again, hm?”

Primogen, the two of them. Or better yet – Prince and Seneschal. Sebastian allows himself the briefest of smiles.

“Perhaps. Return for your Childe first and we shall talk of any future endeavors, afterwards.”

The hand twitches on his jaw – and then Sebastian is vividly aware of him leaning in. The world around them comes to a grinding halt. Panic blooms in his chest and he remembers the sensation of his heart, beating wildly in his throat –

Then tender lips brush against his left cheek and ever so slowly, almost reverently, pull slightly back to trail over to his right cheek and remain there for a second longer than what propriety asks of.

_La bise_ , he thinks a little dazedly as Philippe finally draws back with hooded dark eyes, _la bise_ is not meant to be this intimate, not between brothers. When was the last time anyone touched him like this?

“ _Prends soin de toi, mon lion_ ,” Philippe whispers. “You are destined for greatness.”

Words escape him, so he watches him pull away in silence; watches him pick up his suitcase and board the train, never looking back.

\--

There is a hasty knock on his door before it creaks open.

“Sir,” Jean Paul begins haltingly, head poking out behind it and fingers drumming on the side. “There is an urgent phone call for you – from Quebec City.”

He is on his feet at once; hurrying over for the door that his ghoul pushes open for him and the small office space that is located in the hallway outside. It has been a good two months of radio silence from Philippe – he could have at least sent him a letter, he muses darkly.

Sebastian stops in front of the cluttered desk, ignoring the towering stacks of paperwork and grabbing for the phone receiver left lying atop a dossier.

“Operator, put me through,” he commands, feeling his ghoul’s anxious energy as he hovers somewhere behind him. There is an audible click on the line, which means he is finally connected to Quebec.

“If you find it so amusing, keeping me -”

“ _…monsieur LaCroix?_ ”

He freezes for the briefest of seconds. That is not Philippe’s voice. He shifts over to his native language at once, clearing his throat.

“It is he. To whom am I speaking?”

“ _Ah. Henri_ _d’Abbadie – Prince of Quebec City._ ”

The _Prince_? His brows shoot up in surprise.

“My Prince,” he corrects himself immediately, aware of how informal and out-of-line he must have sounded. “My apologies, I was expecting Durand in your stead. To what do I owe this honor?”

Perhaps Philippe has decided to actually pay him back, earlier than what he had promised. If this d’Abbadie has any good connections to American figureheads…

“ _Philippe…He had informed me you are supervising his Childe, yes?_ ”

“…that is correct, yes.”

Why is he bringing up Wyatt in this? If this a conversation regarding prestation, her person should have nothing to do with –

“ _I am afraid your task will have to last longer than expected_ ,” the man on the other side of the line tells him carefully. “ _We faced a raid, two nights ago. Philippe was one of the casualties. My condolences, mister LaCroix._ ”

The air is punched out of his lungs and he braces himself against the desk, staring blankly at half-filled mortgage spreadsheets.

One of the casualties.

_My condolences_.

“I – see,” he manages to stutter out. His ears buzz. His sight swims. Philippe –

“Thank you for taking the time to inform me.”

Gone.

“I will let his Childe know.”

“ _I would appreciate that. He was a good man and he will be missed dearly. Do tell miss Wyatt she is always welcome to return home, should she so wish._ ”

Home. His memory drifts to a cottage, a little outside of Calais; of golden, rolling hills and a setting sun.

“ _My condolences, yet again. Goodbye, mister LaCroix._ ”

He does not respond – merely listens to the line drop before the receiver slips from his grasp and lands on the desk with a dull thud. It does not manage to faze him.

Philippe is gone.

“Sir, what happened? You look -”

He forces himself to straighten his back, school his expression into something indifferent. Jean Paul stares at him, worriedly.

“Cancel today’s meeting – move it to Friday. Call miss Wyatt and ask her to be ready by midnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Baiser. Faire, donner une bise :  
> Il faut accepter notre affection sans vouloir lui donner le visage le plus plaisant. Mille bises. A jeudi. J. Riviere, Correspondance[avec Alain-Fournier], 1911, p. 266.
> 
> Kiss. Make, give a kiss:  
> We must accept our affection without wanting to give it the most pleasant face. A thousand kisses. On Thursday. J. Riviere, Correspondence[with Alain-Fournier], 1911, p. 266.


End file.
